I went to Vegas as a poor 23-year-old this past week, from Saturday to Tuesday. Still seems unreal. What feels especially unreal is how well I felt I fit in. How much the lifestyle intrigued me.
One of the friends I went with scored first class tickets on the flight there. We sat down with more than enough foot room. With 12 seats taking up first class, you almost felt like no one else was on the plane. Just you and your little first class world. Offered orange juice or water. No thank you. Continental breakfast? No thanks, but thanks. Your friend will have some, though, from which you’ll sneak bites. Cereal, milk, fresh fruit, cheese, three cinnamon rolls. Free alcoholic beverage. Space. A curtain and partitions is all that separates you and coach. Hello from the other side.
And then you fall asleep, waking up only when the plane touches ground, and you leave before everyone else–the woman with three children attached to her hips. The man with a frayed beanie. The 13-year-old traveling by herself for the first time, scanning the crowds for the safety of the relative she’s visiting. The old couple shadowed by 50 years of history and memory.
Vegas, Baby. Time to win some money–money that you never see unless you catch a ride on some rare comet of luck. Unlikely. Lost.
On the way home, you look down from your oval window 50,000 ft. up. Coach. Trapped. The smell of body odor and breath and limited space. Complimentary soda. Headphones, and your neck pillow. A curtain and partitions is all that separates you and first class.
Hello from the other side.